The stream was wider than Mike had expected—nearly twenty feet across and moving with purpose over a bed of smooth stones. The water ran clear, revealing flashes of movement beneath the surface that might have been fish. Or fish-adjacent creatures, anyway. At this point, Mike wasn't making assumptions about anything.
He knelt at the edge, cupping his hands to drink. The water tasted clean with a slight mineral tang, refreshing after his night in the forest. As he drank, another blue notification appeared, hovering just above the water's surface. Still incomprehensible, but there was something that looked like a plus sign followed by a small icon resembling a water droplet. "Hydration bonus? Water skill? Who knows," Mike muttered, splashing some water on his face.
With his immediate thirst quenched, he surveyed the area. The stream ran roughly north to south, cutting through the forest. The eastern bank, where he stood, sloped gently up to the treeline. The western bank was steeper, rising to a rocky bluff about thirty feet high. Several large trees had taken root at the base of the bluff, their exposed roots creating a complex network of natural shelving in the soil. Mike eyed those roots thoughtfully. With some work, that could become the foundation of a decent shelter—one far more secure than his hasty lean-to. He waded across the stream, the cold water soaking his jeans to mid-thigh. Reaching the western bank, he examined the root system more closely. Three large trees grew in a rough triangle, their roots intertwining to create a partial enclosure about seven feet across at its widest point. The bluff behind them would serve as a natural back wall. "This'll work," Mike decided. "Defensible position, water source nearby, elevated enough to avoid flooding if the stream rises."
He pulled out his phone to record a new note. "Found water and potential shelter location. Western bank of a north-south stream, at the base of a small bluff. Three large trees with exposed root systems that can be modified into a secure perimeter." He paused, looking upstream and down. "No sign of that monster from yesterday, but I'm assuming it's still out there. Priority now is to build shelter, set up some basic defenses, then work on food procurement." Mike tucked the phone away and began gathering materials. Fallen branches of various sizes, flexible vines that could serve as binding, broad leaves that might provide waterproofing, stones for tools and weights. He arranged his findings near the root enclosure, organizing them by size and potential use—just as he would materials at a job site. The work was familiar enough to be almost comforting. For a few hours, he could almost pretend this was just some extreme camping trip, a test of survival skills rather than a bizarre transportation to another reality.
As midday approached, Mike had assembled enough materials to begin construction in earnest. He'd fashioned a crude digging tool from a flat stone lashed to a sturdy branch, using it to deepen the natural depression between the tree roots. The excavated soil he piled along the exposed sides, creating a berm that would help conceal the shelter's entrance. The physical labor felt good—purposeful and grounding. Sweat soaked through his t-shirt as he worked, the familiar ache in his muscles reminding him that whatever else had changed, his body still operated by the same rules it always had. A new notification appeared as he was weaving smaller branches between the larger roots to create walls. This one showed what looked like a simplified structure icon followed by a number: 1, then a moment later, 2. "Building skill?" Mike guessed. "At least we agree I'm good at this."
By late afternoon, the basic structure was taking shape—a reinforced hollow between tree roots, partially dug into the embankment, with woven branch walls filling the gaps. The entrance was a narrow crawlspace that could be blocked from within by a movable section of branch-weave. It wasn't pretty, but it would provide protection from the elements and some security against smaller predators. Mike's stomach growled, reminding him that half a sandwich and some coffee wasn't enough to sustain a day of hard labor. He eyed the stream, where occasional flashes suggested aquatic life, but had no way to catch fish without proper tools. "Traps," he said aloud. "Need to set some traps." Mike had never been a hunter, but he understood physics and mechanical systems. A snare trap shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.
He selected several flexible green branches, bending them to test their springiness. Suitable ones he set aside. From his tool belt, he removed his utility knife—a modest folding box-cutter with a replaceable blade. It wasn't meant for woodworking, but it was sharp enough to cut vines and carve notches into softer woods. Using techniques half-remembered from a Discovery Channel show and half-improvised, Mike fashioned three snare traps. Each consisted of a bent branch secured to the ground, a trigger mechanism made from notched sticks, and a noose formed from the toughest vines he could find. When triggered, the branch would snap upward, tightening the noose around whatever had disturbed it. "Basic, but it might work," Mike muttered, setting the first trap along what appeared to be a small game trail near the stream.
As he was positioning the second trap in a similar location twenty yards downstream, movement caught his eye. Something small and furry—rabbit-like, though with six legs instead of four—was drinking at the water's edge about thirty yards away. Mike froze, watching the creature. It was the size of a large rabbit, covered in reddish-brown fur, with a pair of small antennae-like protrusions from its head. Its six legs ended in what appeared to be tiny hooves rather than paws. *Food*, his stomach reminded him urgently. Moving with deliberate slowness, Mike readied his third trap, setting it closer to where he'd seen the creature. He anchored it carefully, ensuring the trigger was sensitive but not so delicate that a passing breeze would set it off. With the traps set, Mike returned to his shelter to continue work on the roof. He layered branches in a crosshatch pattern, weaving them together to create a framework that he then covered with broad leaves. Over this, he packed a thin layer of soil and moss for insulation and camouflage.
By sunset, the shelter was crude but functional—waterproof enough to keep out light rain, concealed enough to avoid casual detection, and secure enough to provide some peace of mind. Mike ducked inside, arranging his meager possessions. He'd created a small shelf from root sections to keep his phone and the first aid kit dry, and fashioned a bed of sorts from the softest foliage he could find. Another notification appeared as he settled into the shelter—multiple boxes this time, with what might have been congratulatory text based on the flashing colors and exclamation points. The number 5 featured prominently. "Level 5 builder? Shelter level 5? Who knows," Mike sighed, pulling out his phone to record the day's progress. "Completed basic shelter construction. Set three snare traps for small game. Current status: shelter secure, water source confirmed, food situation pending. Battery at 41%—need to conserve power."
He paused, then added more quietly, "It's been about 24 hours since I arrived here. Still no idea where 'here' is, or how to get home. But I'm alive, and I'm going to stay that way until I figure this out." He hesitated, then added, "Sarah, Jeremy, if you somehow ever hear this—I'm sorry I'm not there. I'm trying to find my way back to you both, I promise." The words caught in his throat. Mike closed his eyes, forcing the thought away. No use going down that road now.
The last of the daylight faded, plunging the forest into darkness once more. Mike had gathered some dry wood during the day, piling it near the shelter entrance. Now he arranged a small fire pit a few feet from the entrance—close enough to provide warmth, far enough to avoid smoke inhalation. Starting the fire with his Zippo lighter, Mike created a small cooking area a few feet from the entrance—close enough to provide warmth, far enough to avoid smoke inhalation. The familiar sound of the lighter's cap flicking open and the scratch of the wheel brought an almost painful reminder of normality. Mike stared at the flame for a moment before lighting the dry kindling he'd gathered, then snapped the lighter shut and returned it to his pocket, along with the half-pack of cigarettes he'd been carrying.
"Should probably quit anyway," he muttered, though the thought of a smoke after the day's stress was tempting. Sarah had been trying to get him to stop for years—she'd be pleased to know he might finally kick the habit, even if it took being transported to another world to do it. The fire cast a warm glow over the stream bank, driving back the encroaching darkness. Mike kept it small—enough for light and minimal warmth, but not so large as to serve as a beacon for whatever else might be hunting in these woods. He ate the last of his sandwich and half of the apple, saving the rest for morning. The dried meat strips from the goblin's pouch remained untouched—a last resort if his traps yielded nothing.
As he chewed, Mike considered his situation more carefully than panic had previously allowed. He was in a world with elves, dwarves, goblins, and monsters. A world with floating text boxes and leveling systems. A world that operated, as far as he could tell, by the logic of the role-playing games Jeremy was always trying to get him to play during family game night. "If this is a game," Mike reasoned aloud, "then there must be rules. Objectives. Ways to advance." The problem was, he couldn't read the instructions. The interface remained stubbornly alien, the prompts incomprehensible. "But I gained... something... when I killed that goblin," he continued, thinking it through. "And I seem to be getting acknowledgment for building skills." Mike looked down at his hammer, recalling the [SKILL] prompt that had appeared after his confrontation with the goblin. On a hunch, he picked up the hammer and focused on it intently. "Skill," he said clearly. "Hammer skill. Activate skill."
Nothing happened.
Mike sighed, placing the hammer beside him. "Worth a shot." He was about to turn in for the night when a distinctive *snap* echoed from downstream—the unmistakable sound of one of his traps being triggered. Grabbing his spear and hammer, Mike crept from the shelter. The fire had burned down to embers, providing just enough light to navigate by. He moved cautiously along the stream bank, guided more by memory than sight. The second trap had been triggered, its bent branch now standing upright. Something thrashed weakly at the end of the noose. As Mike approached, he could see it was one of the six-legged rabbit creatures he'd spotted earlier.
The trap had worked just as designed, catching the creature around its midsection and hoisting it partially off the ground. It was still alive, making small distressed sounds that twisted something in Mike's chest. "I'm sorry," he told it quietly. "But I need to eat." Using his utility knife, he dispatched the creature as quickly and humanely as he could. The act turned his stomach—Mike had never killed for food before—but necessity overrode squeamishness. As the creature went still, the now-familiar *ding* sound rang out. The same warm sensation washed over Mike, slightly stronger than before. A notification appeared, this one containing the number 2. "Level 2, I guess," Mike murmured. "For killing or for successful trapping or both."
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He carried his prize back to the shelter, where the remnants of the fire provided just enough light to work by. Skinning and cleaning the creature proved messy and difficult with only a utility knife, but Mike managed well enough. The meat, when cautiously roasted over the rekindled fire on a green wood skewer, tasted surprisingly like chicken with a hint of something sweeter. As he ate, more notifications appeared—complex strings of symbols that might have been conveying information about nutrition, health restoration, or status effects. All meaningless to Mike, though the food itself was satisfyingly real. With his hunger sated and a moderately secure shelter over his head, exhaustion finally caught up with him. Mike banked the fire carefully, crawled into his shelter, and positioned the movable section of wall across the entrance.
Inside, wrapped in his rain jacket for warmth, Mike allowed himself to truly rest for the first time since arriving in this world. Before sleep claimed him, his thoughts drifted to Sarah—the way she'd curl against him on cold nights, her soft breathing as she slept. The memory brought an ache of longing so intense it was almost physical pain. "I'll get back to you," he whispered into the darkness. "Both of you." Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless.
---
He awoke to screaming.
Mike bolted upright, momentarily disoriented in the absolute darkness of the shelter. The screams came again—high-pitched, inhuman, and alarmingly close. Fumbling for his hammer, Mike pushed aside the entrance barrier and peered out. Dawn was just breaking, the forest still largely in shadow. The screams had stopped, replaced by guttural snarls and the sounds of tearing flesh. Twenty yards upstream, a pack of wolf-like creatures—though with scales rather than fur and six limbs like the rabbit—were feasting on something. One raised its head, jaws dripping with blood, and seemed to look directly at Mike. He ducked back into the shelter, heart pounding. The wolf-things hadn't seemed to notice him yet, too engrossed in their kill. But they were between him and his other traps, and their presence suggested a new level of danger in the area. "Great," Mike whispered. "Now there are dire wolves too." He waited in tense silence, listening as the pack finished their meal. Eventually, the sounds of feeding stopped, replaced by the receding noise of the pack moving away into the forest.
When he was certain they were gone, Mike cautiously emerged. The kill site was a mess of blood and scattered bones—the remains of something larger than his six-legged rabbit, possibly a deer analog. His third trap, he discovered, had been triggered and torn apart, likely by the same pack. Only the first trap remained intact and unvisited. Mike reset the second trap, salvaging what materials he could from the destroyed third one. Returning to his shelter, Mike recorded a new voice note. "Day two. Shelter is holding up well. Caught a six-legged rabbit thing last night—edible, tastes like chicken. Pack of wolf-creatures hunting in the area this morning—need to be more careful. Will reinforce shelter today and work on more sophisticated traps."
He looked at his battery level: 37%. Soon he would need to stop recording updates to conserve power, but for now, the phone served as his only connection to sanity—a record that his old life had existed, that he wasn't just a character in this bizarre game world. He touched the screen's background image—a family photo from their trip to Yellowstone last summer, Sarah laughing as Jeremy made faces behind her. The sight strengthened his resolve. After a breakfast of the remaining apple and a small portion of the leftover meat, Mike set to work improving his shelter. He dug the floor deeper, reinforced the walls with a mud-and-branch mixture similar to wattle and daub, and created a better door from woven branches and bark.
By midday, the shelter was substantially improved—still primitive, but more secure and comfortable. As Mike stepped back to assess his work, multiple notifications appeared, including what looked like a progress bar that filled rapidly before disappearing. The number 8 flashed prominently. "Building skill level 8, maybe?" Mike guessed. "Getting better at this, whatever it is." His next priority was improving his traps. The simple snares had proven effective for small game, but Mike needed more diverse options. Using his construction knowledge, he designed and built a deadfall trap using a flat rock and trigger mechanism, positioning it near a game trail he'd identified. For fish, he fashioned a crude basket trap from flexible branches, narrowing at one end to allow fish to swim in but making it difficult for them to find the exit. He weighted it with stones and positioned it in a calm pool of the stream where fish seemed to congregate.
Throughout the day, more notifications appeared as he worked—some seemingly positive, others possibly warnings or instructions. The [SKILL] prompt appeared twice more, always in relation to his hammer when he used it for particularly precise work. Late in the afternoon, Mike checked his traps. The fish basket contained three small fish, each about six inches long and silver-blue in color. The deadfall had caught nothing, but the remaining snare held another six-legged rabbit. "Not bad," Mike said, gathering his catch. "Not going to starve tonight, at least."
As he was returning to his shelter, movement in the underbrush caught his attention. Mike froze, clutching his spear. The bushes parted to reveal three of the goblin-like creatures he'd encountered the previous night. These were slightly larger than the one he'd killed, and better armed—crude but effective-looking clubs and leather armor reinforced with what appeared to be bone plates. They spotted Mike immediately, yellow eyes widening before narrowing with clear hostile intent. The lead goblin barked something in a harsh, guttural language. The other two spread out, clearly intending to flank Mike. *They're not mindless*, Mike realized. *They use tactics.* There was no chance of outrunning them to his shelter. Mike backed toward the stream, keeping all three in view. If it came to a fight, the water at his back would at least prevent them from surrounding him completely. "I don't want trouble," Mike said, knowing they couldn't understand him but hoping his tone might convey something. "Just passing through."
The lead goblin snarled and pointed at Mike's hammer, then to the crude medallion hanging around its own neck. It barked another command, and the three began to advance. "So that's how it is," Mike muttered, gripping his spear tightly. The first goblin rushed him with surprising speed. Mike sidestepped its club swing and thrust with his spear, catching it in the shoulder. The creature shrieked but didn't fall, grabbing the spear shaft with its free hand. Mike released the spear and swung his hammer in a smooth arc, connecting solidly with the goblin's temple. It dropped instantly, just as the second attacker reached him.
This one was more cautious, feinting with its club while trying to get behind Mike. He kept the stream at his back, shuffling sideways to maintain distance. When the goblin committed to a lunge, Mike deflected the club with his forearm—pain lanced through the bone, but he managed to stay upright—and brought his hammer down on the creature's outstretched arm. Bone cracked audibly. The goblin howled, dropping its weapon. Mike followed through with a second hammer strike to its head. The creature collapsed, twitching.
The third goblin, seeing its companions fall so quickly, hesitated. Then with a guttural cry, it lunged forward, the crude knife in its hand catching Mike by surprise. He twisted away, but not fast enough. The jagged blade sliced through his shirt and carved a burning line across his ribs. "Shit!" Mike gasped, stumbling backward. The pain was immediate and sharp, blood quickly soaking the torn fabric. The goblin pressed its advantage, slashing wildly. Mike retreated, splashing into the edge of the stream. His foot slipped on a smooth stone, and for one terrifying moment, he was off-balance and vulnerable. The goblin's next thrust came straight at his midsection. Mike twisted desperately, swinging his hammer more in panic than precision. By sheer luck, the hammer head caught the goblin's wrist, sending its knife spinning away. Before the creature could recover, Mike planted his feet and swung again, putting his full construction-hardened strength behind it. The hammer connected with the goblin's skull with a sickening crack. The creature's yellow eyes rolled up, and it crumpled to the ground.
Mike stood panting, hammer held ready in case the goblin was faking. When it didn't move, he finally allowed himself to assess the damage. The cut along his ribs was about four inches long, not deep enough to threaten organs but bleeding steadily. Each breath sent a fresh stab of pain through his side. "Damn it," he muttered, pressing his hand against the wound. A single *ding* sound rang out. A subtle warmth spread through Mike, but nowhere near as intense as he'd felt after killing the first goblin. A notification appeared briefly, but without the prominent numbers he'd seen before. Instead, something that looked like a progress bar filled slightly. "Experience, but not enough to level," Mike guessed, wincing as he moved to examine the fallen goblins.
He crouched beside the fallen goblins. Unlike the first one he'd killed, these didn't immediately dissolve into light. Instead, they lay still, bleeding from their wounds. Mike searched them quickly, recovering a small collection of crude gemstones similar to the first goblin's, several strips of the dried meat, and a waterskin filled with something that smelled strongly alcoholic. "Sorry, fellas," Mike told the bodies. "Just trying to survive here." The wound in his side throbbed insistently, blood still seeping through his fingers as he pressed against it. Mike tore a strip from the bottom of his t-shirt, but it was too narrow and already sweat-soaked to be effective. He needed proper bandaging.
Back at his shelter, Mike rummaged through his pack, finally pulling out his worn button-up work shirt he'd been using as a pillow. With his utility knife, he cut several strips from it, layering the cleanest portions against the wound before binding it tightly around his torso. The makeshift bandage would have to do until he could properly clean the injury. The pain made every movement a careful calculation. Mike gathered his fish and rabbit, retrieved his spear, and made his way slowly back to his shelter. As he approached, a notification appeared—this one larger and more elaborate than the others, with pulsing colors around its borders. In the center, finally, was something he could read: [DANGER].
Mike barely had time to process this when a tremendous roar shook the forest behind him. Trees crashed and splintered as something massive moved through the underbrush—something heading directly toward the site of his goblin encounter. "Oh shit," Mike breathed, diving into his shelter and pulling the door closed behind him. Through gaps in the woven branches, he watched as an enormous shape emerged from the treeline. The last light of day illuminated a nightmare—the many-limbed horror from his first day, the creature the elf had called a "Void Ripper." It bent over the fallen goblins, multiple eyes blinking independently as it examined them. A mouth filled with needle-like teeth opened, and with disturbing efficiency, it began to feed.
Mike shrank back from the viewing gap, pressing himself against the far wall of his shelter. Cold sweat soaked his shirt as he silently prayed the creature wouldn't notice his nearby presence. The sounds of feeding continued for several minutes, occasionally punctuated by the cracking of bones. Then, silence. Cautiously, Mike peered out again. The Void Ripper stood motionless, its head turned in the exact direction of Mike's shelter. Multiple eyes blinked, focusing. A low, vibrating hum emanated from it—a sound that set Mike's teeth on edge and made his skin crawl. It knew he was there. One chitinous limb extended toward the shelter, stretching impossibly. The tip of it, barbed like a scorpion's tail, hovered just feet from the concealed entrance.
Mike held his breath, knuckles white around the shaft of his hammer. If the creature attacked, his small shelter would provide no protection. The walls that had seemed so sturdy against wolves and goblins would collapse like paper before this monstrosity. The limb twitched, then slowly withdrew. The Void Ripper turned, its massive body moving with unsettling grace, and disappeared back into the forest. Minutes passed before Mike dared to breathe normally again. His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone. "It's back," he whispered into the recorder. "The thing that killed the elf and dwarf. It found me. It knows I'm here." He swallowed hard. "I can't stay here. This shelter, these traps—they're not enough. I need to move, find somewhere safer. Maybe... maybe look for other people, if there are any friendly ones in this world."
Mike looked at his small collection of tools and weapons—hammer, utility knife, crude spear, stolen goblin club. Meager protection against the horrors this world contained. "Tomorrow I break camp. Find somewhere more defensible. Need to get stronger, fast." He paused, then added softly, "Sarah, Jeremy, I'm not giving up. I'm coming home somehow." He tucked the phone away, too shaken to eat the food he'd gathered. Instead, he curled up in the darkest corner of his shelter, hammer clutched to his chest, and listened to the sounds of the night closing in around him.
Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of many-eyed shadows and floating words he couldn't read. And somewhere in those dreams, Sarah's face appeared, reaching for him across an impossible distance.
